The Boy Who Lived
by milapede
Summary: Magic goes awry whenever Harry and Voldemort meet. Voldemort is hit by a killing curse but turns into character #2 instead of dying. Harry is confused. Eventual slash.
1. Chapter 1

When the killing curse rebounds…

_This is it. This is the moment my life has been building up to since before I even knew your name._

When the killing curse rebounds green light meets red light and turns on its head…

_This is for mum and dad. This is for Sirius. For Dumbledore and for Remus. Tonks. Fred. This is for everyone I've ever loved that you've taken away_

and the path of the light is like the path of all light, bound to a straight line, and the line ends at Voldemort's heart, and so Voldemort must die tonight

_You will reap what you sow_

But when the light hits Voldemort in the chest he does not crumple and fall to the floor the way Harry has seen too many of his friends die. The light hits and Voldemort falls and his wand, the Elder Wand, flies across the room and into Harry's other hand, but instead of crumpling like a paper bag Voldemort's body begins to _unravel_. The stuff he's made of spirals rapidly outwards like a storm - somewhere in there amid swirling clouds of black robes is the red glint of his eyes and the green light that should have killed him - and Harry backs away fast, trying to pull those around him to safety, but the storm dies before it can touch a hair on his head. Then everyone in the hall is left with a clear view of what it left in its wake: a wide eyed, very pale, unarmed and completely naked boy on his knees. And no one, Death Eater or otherwise, knows what to make of him.

Tom Riddle runs for it.

"Stupefy!" yells Harry, his instincts kicking in immediately, and at least this time, when the spell connects with Riddle's bare back, it does what it's supposed to do, taking him down instead of turning him into ribbons of soul and magic.

"There's a war to be won," Harry roars into the silence, cutting through the crowd as quickly as he can before the spells fly. Abruptly, the fighting resumes.

Harry grabs hold of the stunned Tom Riddle's arm and struggles to drag him away before any of the Death Eaters (Bellatrix Lestrange is the first to come to mind) can beat him to it.

Ron and Hermione are by his side immediately. "Levicorpus!" shouts Hermione. Riddle's arm slips out of Harry's grasp as he rises above the crowd and floats balloon-like, as though presiding over the battle. "The Gryffindor common room should be safe for now," says Harry, and leads the way.

The frame where the Fat Lady usually resides is empty, the Fat Lady having abandoned it for a prime seat in the Great Hall with all the other portraits. Thankfully she's left the common room door ajar. Hermione maneuvers Tom Riddle into the common room and they climb in, shutting the door behind them.

This is as far as Harry has planned.

"Bloody hell, why is he naked?" splutters Ron as Tom Riddle's nudity registers. Hermione quickly conjures a large cloak that settles neatly over Riddle, covering him from the chest down, and Ron's discomfort grows when he notices the blush creeping up her cheeks.

"Him, Hermione, really?"

"What now?" asks Hermione, ignoring Ron's look of incredulity.

"What now?" echoes Ron. "We kill the bastard, that's what."

"We can't," begin Harry and Hermione together -

"Why not? I know he looks younger and less ugly but it's still Voldemort in there. And Harry you yourself said he was evil from the start. He killed kids at that orphanage."

"If you want to kill him you'll have to do it," says Harry. Ron falls quiet at that.

"I don't understand how this could have happened," Hermione says. "Who is he? He isn't Voldemort but he isn't Tom Riddle either: his soul isn't intact."

Harry stares at the inert figure of Tom Riddle and marvels at the sheer number of violations of the laws of magic that have transpired since their first meeting. This time he thought he'd gone into battle having pieced together the whole picture.. the horcruxes, the protection of his mother's love… But now there's a new piece to the puzzle. Dumbledore would have worked it out, but this is beyond him.

"Do you think _he'll_ know?" Hermione asks suddenly.

"We should ask him," Harry decides. "We'll wake him up and ask him how much he knows about what happened, and if he can remember then he can tell us if Voldemort had some trick up his sleeve to block an Avada Kedavra."

It's a plan that'll do for the moment. They split up - Ron running back downstairs to fight with his family, Harry staying. Hermione is torn, but runs after Ron when Harry convinces her that he is in a better position than he's ever been in when facing Voldemort; Riddle is unarmed and Harry has two wands.

The common room falls into an unnatural silence.

Harry takes the plunge.


	2. Chapter 2

Tom Riddle awakens like a man on an electric chair, bolting upright with a shudder and a gasp. The blood drains from his face when he notices Harry's wand aimed squarely at his chest.

"Don't move," Harry warns, wand at the ready in case Riddle tries to run for it again.

Somehow, this seems to reassure Riddle if anything. The colour returns to his face. "You're not going to tie me up?" he asks, the taunt clear in his voice, "You're not very experienced at this, are you?"

"What do you think this is?" Harry asks.

"This is an inquisition, isn't it?" Riddle says and pulls the cloak Hermione conjured over his shoulders. He looks around him. "Say, you don't happen to have any spare robes do you?"

The questioning isn't going the way Harry intended. He grits his teeth, but Riddle goes on blithely, taking in his surroundings like he's a newly arrived exchange student from Durmstrang instead of a prisoner of war. "Well since we are in the Gryffindor common room, I don't suppose anyone would mind if we went upstairs to the dormitories and borrowed something to wear. Do you, Harry Potter?" The light, almost conversational tone belies a gaze made of ice.

"You can have something to wear later," Harry says brusquely, tightening his grip on his wand. "Don't talk." And quickly adds, when he catches Riddle's lips curling, "Unless I tell you to."

Somehow the silence, too, is a taunt.

Where to begin?

"Tell me- tell me what you remember."

Riddle's eyes gleam. Very slowly, as though recalling with difficulty, he says, "I remember waking up in this common room with you.

"Before that I remember running through the Great Hall, through a throng of people, and being Stunned, presumably by you.

"Before that I remember waking up in the middle of the Great Hall, beneath the enchanted sky.

"Before that everything was a dream."

Harry stares. "What do you mean everything?"

"Everything," Riddle says simply. "From my birth to my death, to my rebirth, to my second death."

"But that wasn't a dream. Everything you say you dreamt really happened."

Riddle chuckles. "Well from a philosophical standpoint it's hard to say that anything is really happening. When a man dreams he is a butterfly and wakes up, is he a man or a butterfly dreaming he is a man?"

"But you said my name. You remember my name. If you remember me you must know your dream is real."

Riddle nods in acknowledgement. "Yes my dream seems consistent with the world I have woken up in. But what I meant by 'dream' is not something that is necessarily imaginary, I mean simply that I do not remember it the same way as I would a memory. I remembered it very vividly when I first woke up, but now many of the details elude me."

Harry can't tell if he's lying. Part of him thinks Tom Riddle is playing him for a fool - no one could be so calm after waking up and finding that everything they'd known to be true was a dream but that everything they'd dreamt was true. The thought alone sends Harry's head spinning in mad circles. But another part of him knows that Tom Riddle isn't like anyone he's ever known. Well, other than one person…

But even then, not really. There is disconnect between the physical realities of Voldemort and Tom Riddle, between the hateful eyes and mutilated face - so much like the waxen face of a burn victim - and the unblemished, even beautiful face that looks up at him.

They regard each other. Riddle seems to read Harry's mind and the question that lingers on it, because he says without prompting, "I don't know what happened between Voldemort falling and my waking up, Harry Potter. I don't know if it was death, or if it was transformation."

Then the common room door swings open, and so many people rush in that Harry is for a moment terrified that Riddle will seize the chance to slip into the crowd, or grab an unattended wand, or be trampled to death in a stampede. But Arthur Weasley, who is leading the charge into the Gryffindor common room, immediately conjures ropes that bind Riddle's wrists, ankles and torso. Riddle hisses and doubles over, as though in pain.

"HARRY!" Harry is distracted by a projectile launching itself into his arms - it's Hermione, followed immediately by a black-eyed but grinning Ron.

"We won, mate!"

Mrs Weasley is next in line, and Harry marvels at the strength of her arms as he finds himself squeezed almost to death.

"Thank Merlin you're alright, dear," she says, fussing over him and checking for signs of injury or pain. "Ron and Hermione never should have left you alone with You-Know-Who." Tom Riddle, who is watching them with seeming indifference from across the room, does not respond to his title. Arthur Weasley and Kingsley Shacklebolt stand on either side of him, their wands out, faces grim, but they smile tiredly at Harry when they catch him looking. "We've got him, Harry," Arthur says.

"Harry did you find out how he managed…?" Hermione begins anxiously, and Harry feels a sudden rush of fondness for her. The war has left half of them dead and the rest of them shaken to the core, but Hermione is still Hermione, hungry to know things. "He doesn't know either," Harry says. "He said everything that happened before that weird storm feels like a dream to him."

"What does he mean everything?"

"He could be lying," Arthur cuts in sharply.

Tom Riddle says nothing to his defence, but continues to watch them with the half-interested air of someone watching a school play.

"If he's lying we'll find out when we question him later with the other Death Eaters," Kingsley says on the other side of him.

"Don't worry Harry," Molly says soothingly, "They won't let him get away this time."

"Where will you take him?" Harry asks Kingsley.

"To the Order's headquarters for now. We'll keep the lot of them there at least until the Ministry is re-established and they can be tried and put away."

"Or Kissed by a Dementor," adds Ron, and Tom Riddle meets his glare with a stare so cold that Ron is forced to look away.

"Come Harry," Molly says, taking Harry's arm gently, "It's time to go home and rest."

The words must be magic, because no sooner are they said than Harry feels the full force of his exhaustion hit, like a river slamming against his chest. He would like very much to rest, to give in to sleep and let it float him away.

"Okay," Harry agrees tiredly. "Let's go home." He lets Molly shepherd him across the common room, thinking how nice it is to let someone else do the steering for a change. He swings a leg over the portrait hole. Remembers the thought that strayed into his head only moments ago, when they were talking of prison and Dementor's Kisses. Turns back. Says, to the room at large, "I don't think he's Voldemort. I think he's human." Everyone stares back, including Riddle. Then he passes through the portrait hole and his friends lead him home.


	3. Chapter 3

Hello, sweet people, thanks for reading :) I hope this story isn't coming along too slowly and you aren't disappointed the slash hasn't started even though we're already three chapters in. We will get there eventually. I am a (fanfic) writer, not a pornographer.

So, chapter three...

* * *

When the war ends mourning comes. Fred is buried in a quiet funeral at Shell Cottage, and everyone who knew him well is present except George, who is for the first time not at his twin's side. The ceremony is extremely painful, with anyone who tries to say a few words to send Fred off breaking down mid-speech. Sentences hang in the air and die. Finally the four Weasley boys present heave the coffin up and into the ground, and the garden closes over Fred, and Mrs Weasley gives one last shuddering sob into Arthur's chest. Ginny plants a sunflower over the grave and after that there is only the eternal sound of the sea sighing sadly in the distance.

Late in the afternoon Harry rises from his nap and borrows Bill's broom to go flying. It's a particularly lovely day in Cornwall. The fog is lit up by the sun, and he is weightless in it, free in more ways than one, no longer a wanted man. He glides up and down the cliffs in figures of eight for a while, weaving past instead of through flocks of seagulls but startling them anyway, then dives off the cliff and deep into the fog, emerging only inches away from sparkling sea water. The spray drenches him immediately. He spots land some ways away, in the form of a narrow beach stretching from one cliff face to another. He makes his way to it and hops lightly onto the sand before he realizes he's not alone.

"Hey Harry."

It's George, emerging from the camouflaging shadows of the cliffs.

"George- I'm sorry- I didn't realize you were here."

"It's okay, I could use a bit of company." George dusts off a rock and perches on it. "Nice idea, that," he says, pointing at Harry's broom.

"Oh, yeah, it's been a while," Harry says, settling down on the sand at George's feet. "I missed flying. How did you get down here?"

"There's a trail leading all the way down. It's pretty far from the cottage, but I've been walking all day."

They watch the sea in silence. Harry picks up a stick lying at his feet and stabs it repeatedly into the sand.

"Drilling for oil?" George asks, and Harry laughs.

"Was mum alright at the funeral?"

"It was very hard for her - for all of them, really," Harry says, "but I think she's doing better now."

"Good," George says, "I hope she understands why I wasn't there. I think we bury the dead to forget them, and I couldn't forgive myself if I forgot him."

Harry doesn't know what to say to this. He hugs his knees to his chest and they lapse into silence again.

"So Voldie's back, huh?"

"His younger self is back."

"That boy in the Great Hall, yeah?" George gives a low whistle. "Who would have thought?"

"I don't know how it could have happened. Neither does he, apparently."

"Well it's not your problem anymore, is it? It's a question the Ministry and the Wizengamot will have to answer before they try him."

"I suppose," Harry says doubtfully. "Somehow I feel responsible, though."

"Why?"

"Because I'm the only one who knows him." He tells George about Dumbledore's Pensieve and the Tom Riddle he met in it. George is a good listener, surprisingly open, interrupting Harry only to ask questions.

When Harry has at last helped George bridge the gap between Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort, George looks away thoughtfully.

Then he says, "Sounds like he was a manipulative cunt from the start."

"Yeah," Harry says ruefully.

"But who knows, maybe he wasn't always destined to be a mass murderer."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

George Weasley gets up and walks slowly towards the sea, his hands in his pockets and his back bent like there's a weight pressing down on his spine.

"Don't you want him dead?" asks Harry. "Everyone seems to want him dead."

George turns. Shrugs. "I wanted to kill him when I found out who he was. I would if it would bring back the people who've died because of him. But it won't, so anger has no place in it."

He asks if he can borrow the broom for a quick fly around the feet of the cliffs before dinner. Harry gives it to him and watches him dart away.

* * *

They return to find Shell Cottage has come to life. Warm light is streaming out of every window in the house, music is audible from the garden, and when they step inside they are greeted not only by the Order but by some of their friends at Hogwarts - Neville is there, and so is Luna - and even a few Hogwarts professors (a suspiciously giggly McGonagall raises a glass of firewhiskey to Harry from across the room). Mrs Weasley rushes towards them and explains anxiously, trying to read George's expression, "I thought it'd be nice to have everyone over and celebrate," and George says gently "It is very nice, mum," and lets her sweep him tearfully into her arms.

All night the music plays and the butterbeer flows. The party reaches a climax when a very flushed Hagrid stands on a chair and starts bellowing out a drunken song, but then the chair splinters like a toothpick and everyone stops singing along and falls over laughing (except Fleur, who was fond of the chair) and Hagrid has to be led aside to a sturdier armchair by the fireplace, where he falls asleep. Gradually people start leaving or nodding off to sleep. Luna, too, is asleep by the fire, a string of glowing fairy lights tangled in her golden hair.

Harry gets up from his bridge game with Ron, Hermione and Neville, leaving Charlie to play in his turn, and approaches Arthur and Kingsley, who sit at the dining table talking in low voices over butterbeer. They look up and smile when he sits down beside them.

"Hullo Harry," says Kingsley cheerfully. "Good party?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "It's good to see everyone so happy for a change. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about your post-war plans."

Kingsley and Arthur exchange looks.

"Specifically the interrogation of Tom Riddle. I want to help."

"Harry I'm not sure how you can-"

"I'm the only one alive who's seen Voldemort before he was Voldemort - Dumbledore showed me his memories of Tom Riddle. I want to be there when you question him, I think I know what he's like better than anyone else."

"I don't think it's very safe, Harry," says Arthur quietly, and before Harry can object, he says, "Not in the sense of physical safety- we've taken every precaution to ensure he has no access to magic, and his cell is under constant surveillance by the Order, but I think he's aware you have a weakness and he will prey on that."

"What weakness?" Harry asks, outraged.

"Kindness."

"And you don't think he deserves any?"

"If it puts you in danger I would say no."

Harry stares at Arthur. "I don't mean to sound arrogant, but I've grown up quite a bit in this war."

Arthur sighs unhappily. "I'm sorry Harry, I didn't mean to patronize you." He looks to Kingsley for help, but Kingsley seems to have changed his mind. "Harry's right," he says, "he's of age. He has more experience than anyone his age, in fact. And we need all the help we can get. There's a lot to be done even though the war's been won. We have prisoners of war to rescue, more Death Eaters and mercenaries to track down, a Dementor and a Giant population to keep in check…" He rubs his forehead.

"Alright," Arthur concedes. "But Harry you can't question him alone. Either Kingsley or I have to be there with you"

"Fair enough."

* * *

_Day One of the Interrogation of Tom Marvolo Riddle_

_4 May 1998._

_Persons involved:_

_A.W.: Arthur Weasley_

_H.P.: Harry Potter_

_R.H.: Rubeus Hagrid_

_T.R.: Tom Riddle_

_R.H.: I'm gonna leave you to it. Holler if you need anything, I'll be right outside._

_A.W.: Thanks Hagrid… Ah, excellent, the quill seems to be working._

_T.R.: Hello again Harry Potter._

_H.P.: Hello Tom._

_T.R.: I was hoping I'd see you soon. There's something I think you might be interested in._

_H.P.: What is it?_

_T.R.: You can't see it from all the way there._

_A.W.: Careful, Harry._

_H.P.: It's okay Mr Weasley._

_H.P.: How curious. He's got a scar just like mine, except it's on his side. Does it hurt when I touch it?_

_T.R.: It doesn't. I've never felt any sensation from it._

_A.W.: Ahem. Moving on... Mr Riddle would you please take this._

_T.R.: Veritaserum._

_A.W.: Yes, we would just like to confirm a few statements you made previously._

_T.R.: I understand._

_A.W.: Well whenever you're ready._

_A.W.: Tom Marvolo Riddle has just taken Veritaserum, as witnessed by Harry James Potter and Arthur Weasley. Mr Riddle, please state your name and birth date._

_T.R.: My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. I do not know if I was ever born in the usual sense of the word._

_A.W.: Were you previously Vol- Voldemort?_

_T.R.: Other people say that I am, but I cannot say this for sure._

_A.W.: Why is that?_

_T.R.: I do not feel the personality of Lord Voldemort is contiguous with mine._

_A.W.: Please elaborate._

_T.R.: Perhaps we are more alike than I think. But I cannot identify with the emotions of his I experienced in my dream. My purpose is different from his. I do not seek world domination. I do not want to kill Harry Potter._

_A.W.: What is your purpose?_

_T.R.: To stay alive._

_A.W.: What is your affiliation with the Death Eaters?_

_T.R.: I have none. At night I hear their screams through the walls but we have never communicated._

_A.W.: Do you have any information on the whereabouts of Florean Fortescue or Mundungus Fletcher?_

_T.R.: Florean Fortescue was tortured and killed in a particularly brutal manner because he was thought to possess something of interest to Lord Voldemort. I do not know the whereabouts of Fletcher._

_A.W.: How do you know what happened to Florean?_

_T.R.: I dreamt through the eyes of Lord Voldemort._

_A.W.: What is the extent of your magical powers? Are they the same as V- Voldemort's or his teenage self?_

_T.R.: I cannot tell without a wand._

_A.W.: Any questions Harry? The Veritaserum will start to wear off soon._

_H.P.: What are your intentions towards me and the Order?_

_T.R.: I intend to persuade you of my innocence._

_A.W.: Would you hurt Harry if it helped you to escape?_

_T.R.: Yes it would be in my interests to do so._

_H.P.: What would you do if we set you free?_

_T.R.: Go into hiding. Thwart assassination attempts. I have already received many death threats, including from that oaf who guards this cell._

_H.P.: Hagrid is not an oaf._

_T.R.: That is debatable._

_A.W.: Alright, that's enough. Thank you, Mr Riddle. Thank you, Quill. That is all for today._

_End of Day One of the Interrogation of Tom Marvolo Riddle._

* * *

When Harry is back at Shell Cottage and has answered all of Ron and Hermione's questions, he finds an empty room and shuts the door behind him. In the pocket of his robes is a crumpled slip of paper that reads "Grawp." He felt Tom Riddle slip it in when he went over to examine the identical lightning bolt scar on the other boy's side. He turns it over in his hands, puzzled. There's no explanation on the back, it's blank. It takes a while for Harry to realize Tom Riddle has given him a password.


	4. Chapter 4

There isn't a Day Two of the Investigation of Tom Marvolo Riddle. Arthur and Kingsley decide re-establishing the Ministry and tracking down the remaining Death Eaters is their priority, and since they've squeezed out all they can from Tom Riddle in this regard, they save their interrogations for the other Death Eaters in captivity. A week passes, during which Harry lies awake at night turning the attic password over and over in his hands until he falls asleep. In that week Shell Cottage starts to empty as post-war life begins. Charlie leaves for Romania, and Hermione and Ron for Australia, to find Hermione's parents and bring them home. Of course they ask Harry along, but Harry senses they want this time to themselves, as a couple. So he wishes them luck, makes them promise to write, and sees them off as they Portkey to Melbourne. He thinks of moving out himself. Not that he isn't welcome here, but Ron and Hermione's absence remind him he can't stay indefinitely. Maybe he could move into his inheritance, Grimmauld Place, or sell the house (some blood purist family like the Malfoys would probably find it of historical interest and pay good money for it) and find himself a cheery, better-lit flat in London. Maybe. It's only when Mr and Mrs Weasley start talking about it being safe to move back into the Burrow soon and the Death Eaters being transferred to Azkaban that Harry makes up his mind.

He takes a satchel of food with him - leftover dinner, fruit, cakes, a tumbler of pumpkin juice… Filling it he feels a weird and unwelcome sense of deja vu, like he's visiting Sirius again in the days when Sirius used to live in a cave off Hogsmeade. The feeling hurts his heart, so he ignores it and clasps the satchel shut, pulls the invisibility cloak over his head, checks again that no one's stirred, disapparates.

Entering the Burrow is as easy as opening the front door and stepping inside. At first the house seems unnaturally quiet to Harry, but then realizes he's gotten used to the sound of the sea, ever present at Shell Cottage. Very slowly he crosses the kitchen and makes his way up the stairs, pausing every time the wood creaks beneath his feet before taking the next step. He's only a couple of steps away from the second floor landing when he comes face to face with Hagrid.

Hagrid is humming unsuspectingly. Harry is horrified. Throwing all caution to the wind, he ducks under Hagrid's arm and rolls onto the landing, landing with a thump. Hagrid stops humming. Looks suspiciously over his shoulder. Then, to Harry's relief, a Death Eater down the corridor starts thumping against his door and wailing loudly. Hagrid turns, the mystery solved in his mind, and continues down the stairs.

Harry hurries up the last two flights of stairs as quickly and as quietly as he can while he has the chance. "Grawp," he whispers to the attic door, and it opens for him.

Tom Riddle is not asleep. He's standing by the small attic window and staring out into the night.

"Is that you?" he asks softly, turning from the window when the door creaks shut behind Harry.

The invisibility cloak comes off.

"It is you," Tom says, stepping away from the window. He's silhouetted in moonlight and Harry can't see his face. "I'm glad I wasn't hallucinating."

Harry casts a quick spell on the door and the floorboards to keep sound from passing through. And then he says, "I brought food."

They sit by the tiny attic window and eat. Tom hunches over his food and eats very fast and doesn't bother with cutlery. He says they don't underfeed him here, but they've also never afforded him the luxury of cake or pumpkin juice or midnight snacks. When he's done he lays back and gazes out of the window, moonlight casting a dreamy glow on his pale face.

"Why were you awake at two in the morning?" Harry asks, settling back against the wall.

"Insomnia," Tom says, "Terrible condition to have when you're in captivity and the only release from boredom is sleep." He sweeps his silky dark hair off his forehead and rakes his fingers through it. "Have they decided what they're going to do with me?"

"Well from what I overheard I think they might move you to Azkaban soon-" fingers tighten around waves of dark hair - "but only until you're tried."

Tom makes a strange noise, somewhere between a snort and a whimper. "Can you imagine them letting me go, Harry?" he asks.

Harry is silent.

"Of course not, people want blood and the last thing a newly established ministry will do is lose their popular appeal by granting me amnesty."

"It's the Wizengamot that's trying you, not the Ministry," Harry puts in.

"Same difference," Tom says dully.

"I will testify for you."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Why not?"

Tom looks moody now, and rather condescendingly, as though speaking to a dim-witted child, he says, "If you testify for me they won't be able to administer the Dementor's Kiss. But they won't let me go either. So they'll give me the next best - or worst, depending on who you ask - thing: Life in Azkaban. I'd rather die."

Harry feels a headache mounting. It alarms him how involved he's become with the fate of the boy before him. He wishes he didn't care, but he does. To the point where he doesn't think he could live with himself if Tom Riddle spent an eternity in Azkaban, and all his youth and brilliance and - dare he say it - beauty wasted away.

"I should go," Harry says, gathering his things.

Tom's expression softens, and he reaches for Harry's arm before Harry can rise. "No don't," he says, gripping tightly, "Stay till sunrise."

So Harry stays. He settles back against the wall and hugs his knees, and they talk. This time about less depressing subjects- what Harry's going to do after the summer (go back to Hogwarts), and what comes after that (try to become an Auror?)

"I wish I could go to Hogwarts after the summer," Tom says sadly. "Voldemort really liked that place. I think what he felt for Hogwarts was as close as he ever came to loving anything."

"It was home," Harry says simply.

"And he'd never had one before Hogwarts," Tom agrees. "Nor did he ever have one after. He was always on the run after Hogwarts."

A silence, and then Tom begins again. "It's the small things I want most of all to have again."

"You miss them more than world domination?"

A smile tugs at the corners of Tom's lips. "I do, actually. I miss magic. There's nothing like the thrill of magic coursing through your veins and out of your wand. Even when you cast something as mundane as an Alohomora, say. I'd give anything to cast an Alohomora again."

"You make magic sound almost sexual."

Tom's laughter is a surprisingly happy sound, not the high pitched cackle Harry remembers from his worst nightmares. "You disagree?" Tom says. "Voldemort found it intensely sexual. He got off on dark magic."

"Why am I not surprised," Harry says wryly.

"He did get off like a normal human too, though. He and Bellatrix went at it like rabbits. Nagini was often involved."

Harry's lungs are thankful he's not drinking anything right now, because he goes into a severe coughing fit.

"There was a lot of sex in his last days," Tom continues helpfully. "I think he had to find some outlet for his frustration at not being able to get to you."

"Stop… talking…" Harry wheezes in between coughs. And then they both burst out laughing and Harry shudders even as he laughs, because the thought of Voldemort having an orgasm is as revolting as it is hilarious, and Tom laughs even harder, and then he stops and says "Shhh"

Harry turns to the door in panic, expecting Hagrid to barge in any second. "There's no one. It's just the birds," Tom says, sitting up and hugging his knees.

The birds are waking up in the trees.

Soon the sun wakes up too, and everything in its light is pink and tender. The mist through the attic window. The silent attic. Harry's invisibility cloak, glimmering by the door. The Weasley children's old toys and robes, lying mostly broken and torn in cardboard boxes stacked up to the ceiling. Tom's face, always turned towards the light.

"Kiss me, Harry," Tom says out of the blue, without looking away from the window.

Harry doesn't know what to say.

"I know it's a strange request, but I'd like it if you humoured me."

"Tom..."

"I just... It's just that life has been so surreal in this attic. Like I'm dreaming. Remind me I'm alive, Harry."

"But we can't..."

"Bind my hands if you must." Tom turns and looks him in the eye. There's a voice in Harry's head that sounds just like Hermione and it's screaming how bad of an idea this is, screaming that he's getting played, but the other boy's gaze is so arresting that all the voices in Harry's head are drowned out, leaving just the voice that simply says _I want_, and somehow Harry decides words are useless and thinking is confusing, and he simply lets _I want _guide him onto his knees. He's sure Tom can detect he's shaking ever so slightly, but the other boy makes no comment when Harry's trembling hands close around his wrists; he only leans in.

At first they're clumsy. Harry's never kissed a boy before, and he's not sure if this one will bite, so he kisses tentatively. And then he finds he likes the sandpaper roughness of a week's unchecked growth of stubble against his face, he likes the warmth and the roughness of kissing another boy and wishes he'd discovered it earlier, so when Tom's tongue probes against his mouth he lets it in, draws it deeper in until Tom moans and his wrists go weak in Harry's clasped hands. At some point Harry comes up for air. Tom is watching him hungrily. There's a feverish glow in his cheeks, or maybe it's just the sunrise.

Harry tells himself he really should be going before the Weasleys wake up or Hagrid comes in to check on Tom. But Tom is impossibly close and studying every minuscule movement he makes, and… Okay just once more then…

This time he takes his wand out of his back pocket and clutches it as they kiss, aware of the absurdity of the situation but not caring as Tom's free hands rove eagerly around his body, cupping his face, stroking his chest, coming to rest briefly around his waist. Harry grips his wand so tightly that golden sparks fly, stinging Tom in the neck, and Tom hisses but Harry can feel his mouth curve into a grin against his own, and Tom reaches down, down, down, finds the buckle in Harry's pants and deftly undoes it…

Harry pulls away, alarmed by how badly he wants what could come next and how much he's willing to risk to let it happen.

"I really should go," he says hastily, scrambling to his feet. Giving himself no time to change his mind, he puts as much distance as he can between him and Tom, willing his hard-on to subside. It doesn't.

Tom's expression is unreadable, but Harry can see him hunched over and panting slightly, like a wild animal in the middle of a hunt. "Accio satchel," Harry says, and this time Tom responds with a smirk that Harry does his best to ignore. He grabs his bag, undoes the silencing spells and picks up the invisibility cloak.

"Well," he says awkwardly, dithering by the doorway.

"Well," Tom says.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

Harry reaches Shell Cottage without any further incident. Thankfully everyone but the birds is still asleep when he climbs into bed. Mrs Weasley is the first to rise about an hour later, and Harry listens to the singing of her kettle, the clattering of her pots. Then Mr Weasley and Percy wake up, eat their breakfast quickly and apparate to the Ministry, then hours later, when the sunlight is bright and strong, it's everyone else's turn. Harry lies awake through all of this. Sleep does not come.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks very much for the very kind reviews! They were a joy to read.

* * *

All morning Harry lies in bed, talking to Hermione in his head as he drifts in and out of sleep.

_Do_ not_ go back_, imaginary Hermione insists. _It's too dangerous._

He dreams of Tom cupping his face in the pale moonlight, trailing electric kisses down his neck, and then moonlight turns to sunlight and Harry finds he is awake again.

_There are ways around it… I could get a mokeskin pouch so he can't get at my wand while we… while we…_

_Are you even thinking of kissing him again? Have you gone mad? _hisses Hermione.

_Stay out of my sex life, Hermione_, Harry thinks morosely and shuts her out of his head, only for the ghost of Ron's voice to mutter

_No offence, but she's right, mate, you're definitely mad. I can't believe you made out with You-Know-Who. You sick, sick bastard._

Harry ignores them both and rolls out of bed. He's got no time for arguing; there're errands to run in Diagon Alley.

It feels like the war hasn't ended in Diagon Alley, like the news of Voldemort's defeat never reached this place somehow. Many store fronts are still boarded up, and some of the boards seem to have been punched through by looters. Glass litters the pavements and foul and rotting smells leak out of broken windows and the gaps in the boards, forcing Harry to breathe through his mouth. It's all very depressing. He feels an urge to stand on a heap of broken glass and shout "The war is over! Cheer up!" but then the sight of Florean Fortescue's now boarded up ice cream parlour makes him ashamed of himself.

He gets what he has come for without anyone but the shopkeeper recognizing him. Everyone else hurries about their business with their eyes trained on the ground. "What's going on around here?" Harry asks the shopkeeper as he hands her a galleon. "Anarchy," she whispers, "There's been a lot of looting since the Ministry collapsed. But I'm glad we stayed open, if only so I could meet you." She squeezes Harry's hand as she hands him his change.

* * *

"Good news, Fleur," Mrs Weasley announces at dinner, "We'll probably be out of your hair by next week."

Harry looks up from his casserole.

"But it eez no trouble at all 'aving you 'ere," says Fleur, although she seems to suddenly be in suspiciously good spirits. "Are zey moving ze Death Eaters to Azkaban zen?"

"They are." Mrs Weasley shudders. "It's horrible to think of that lot in the Burrow, sleeping where my children used to sleep, but Arthur promises to restore everything to the way it used to be before we move in."

"When are they moving the Death Eaters?" Harry asks.

"Oh I don't know, dear, you'll have to ask Arthur, but probably over the next few days."

* * *

Harry bites his nails. Bites the skin around his nails till he draws blood and Ginny asks why he's concentrating so hard on a game of exploding snap. He tries not to fidget after that, but then he doesn't know what to do with himself. So he makes up his mind about what's going to happen tonight once everyone's gone to bed.

"Hello, Harry," Tom says pleasantly later that night, watching him from across the room as he shuts the attic door behind him and shucks off his invisibility cloak. "You seem nearly as flustered as you were when you left last night."

Harry remembers to cast silencing spells. "I was worried you'd been transferred to Azkaban already," he says.

"Is that happening soon?" Tom asks.

"It's scheduled to. But I've been thinking… I'm going to help you break out of here."

Tom stares. "When?"

"Tonight," Harry says.

"But I haven't had time to pack my things."

Harry grins despite himself. "Here's what we'll do: I'll unlock the door for you and you can go down first, in my invisibility cloak. I'll follow in a disillusionment charm. Meet me just outside the gates. We'll apparate together."

"Just like that," Tom remarks. "It seems too easy, but I can't see a flaw in the plan."

"Where do you want to apparate to when we're out of here?"

"Heathrow," Tom says, and it's Harry's turn to stare.

"Seriously?"

Tom shrugs. "Portkeys are too traceable and Apparition is risky given the distance. Which unfortunately leaves Muggle modes of transportation."

"Where are you planning to go?" Harry asks curiously.

"I was thinking San Francisco," Tom says, almost shyly. "I've never been - Voldemort never went, that is - but I could have a new start there. No one will have heard of me."

"Makes sense," Harry says, although there's a sinking feeling in his chest he doesn't really want to admit to. _Our paths might never cross again._ "I guess we should get going then. Are you ready?"

Tom nods and pulls the invisibility cloak over his head while Harry disillusions himself.

"Alohomora."

Nothing could have prepared them for what happens next. And what happens is that all hell breaks loose.

The moment Tom steps through the doorway a horrible siren starts up in the attic, as paralyzingly loud as an army of firetrucks and carrying through the house and probably all the way into the village beyond.

"Run!" Harry calls out, but his voice is lost in the intensity of the siren's wail. He hurries down the stairs, after Tom, he hopes.

There's a welcoming party of four - no, five - armed wizards at the foot of the stairs. Harry spots Kingsley, Arthur, Hagrid and two other aurors he's never met.

"Finite incantatem," says Kingsley, which shuts the siren up and brings Harry into view. Harry's ears ring unpleasantly in the sudden silence.

"HARRY" roars Hagrid in shock. "What are yeh doing here?"

"Questions can come later," Kingsley says sharply, "Where is Riddle, Harry? We know he's left his room."

"He's... he must have escaped already," lies Harry, but Kingsley shakes his head.

"We know for a fact no one has left this house."

"He's in your invisibility cloak, isn't he?" Arthur says suddenly from behind Kingsley, sounding very faint, like reality is too strong for him.

"He is indeed." It's Tom, and he's standing right behind Harry. Before Harry can turn to look arms fold around his chest in a gesture that seems almost protective - until Harry realizes Tom's slipped his wand out his pocket and has it aimed right at his throat.

"Tom what are you doing?," Harry whispers, but Tom ignores him and speaks to Kingsley instead.

"I want you to lower the wards, or Potter dies."

"You can't blackmail us, Riddle," Kingsley says evenly. "You kill him and then what? We let you go freely into the night? Did you think we would play your little games?"

"I was hoping you would," says Tom softly, "Think of all the fun we could have together."

Harry almost doesn't feel it when it happens. There's just a stinging sensation on his neck and a sudden gush of warmth, but he might have missed it in the moment that it happened if not for Hagrid's very loud cry of "NO!" and the ensuing struggle as the rest fight to restrain him.

"Every moment you dawdle Potter's life drains away," says Tom, just as Harry's knees give. He sags into Tom's arms, realizing now what has happened. "Tom," he whispers again, but Tom ignores him. "It's so cold."

Harry can hear Hagrid howling and Arthur speaking. Arthur is saying "I'm going to lower the wards. Just let him go, Riddle. Please," and as he speaks his trembling voice seems to be coming from further and further away. The world around Harry has dimmed and he's cold, so cold, even at the warmest part of him where his back meets Tom's chest. It feels like how it would feel if the sun were dying.

There's a crack and the world gives one last spin.

And then the sun really dies.

* * *

Someone is slapping Harry's face. Harry wonders if they're using their hands or a fish. Slap slap slippery slap. He wishes they'd be gentler.

"Harry, wake up," they say. They sound urgent. "You can't fall asleep."

Why won't they just let him be?

"Harry you fucker, don't die on me."

Harry opens his eyes and the swirling colours of the world around him slowly rearrange themselves into the shape of Tom's face. It's a very lovely face, Harry thinks, even if it's the face of someone who tried to murder him not too long ago. A lovely, serious face with dark and serious eyes. Tom is haloed by streetlights, and there's graffiti on the wall behind him that reads "PEACE."

Harry laughs at the accidental irony, but the exertion is so costly that he almost passes out again.

"You tried to kill me," he says weakly when he recovers.

"And I nearly succeeded, too," Tom says grimly.

Harry laughs again, nearly faints again.

"Stop giggling," Tom says, and slaps Harry's face again as his eyelids droop shut. "Stay awake."

"Are we in San Francisco?" Harry asks.

"We're in London, close to... Nevermind. There's a motel around the corner. Can you walk to it with me?"

Harry groans. "It's far..."

"You don't even know where it is. It's just around the corner, come on. Once we're there you can rest and I'll bring you blood."

"Am I a vampire now?"

Tom smirks. "Just for tonight. You've lost a lot of blood. Got any muggle money?"

"I have nothing. You stole my wand."

"No matter," Tom says dismissively, "I have your wand, so I have muggle money. Now, for muggle clothes..."

He waves Harry's wand, first over himself, then over Harry. Something falls out of where Harry's robe pocket used to be and hits the pavement with a soft tinkling sound. Tom snatches it before it rolls away towards the gutter.

"What's this?" he demands, holding it up to the streetlight.

"Sleeping potion," Harry says, eyeing the glinting vial in Tom's hands. "Got it in Diagon Alley today. Thought you might need it."

Tom looks at him strangely. "I slept this morning. For the first time in a week." He pockets the vial anyway and helps Harry up.

Streetlights swim nauseatingly in and out of view as Harry staggers to his feet, and he struggles not to retch. He thinks the effort of throwing up might just kill him. They make their way to the motel one excruciating step at a time. Like snails oozing across the universe, Harry thinks, and laughs to himself.

"What did I tell you about giggling?"

The motel receptionist doesn't ask any questions other than the standard ones, just hands them the keys with a perfunctory "Third floor, corridor on your right," which makes Harry wonder what sort of people come here at night. As they wait for the lift he examines his own reflection in the shiny silvery doors. There are no traces of blood and his clothes are nice, but he's so pale, even next to Tom, who is one of the palest people Harry knows. Ghosts aside.

Once they're in the room, Tom helps Harry into bed, tugs his shoes off and pulls the covers over him.

"Are you warm enough?" he asks, and Harry nods.

"Are you alright sleeping in your clothes?" Harry nods again.

"I'll be back," Tom says, but Harry's already fallen asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Dim yellow glow of a table lamp. Heavy curtains, drawn. Faintly musty smell of a room that's probably never had its windows open for too long. It takes Harry a second to remember where he is, and then it hits - he's in the motel Tom brought him to, of course. _Tom._ The thought of the psychotic fucker makes Harry's heart pump with all the rage he forgot to feel last night, and it makes him even sicker to remember how he just swooned pathetically into Tom's arms without a fight after getting his throat slit. And speak of the devil. Tom is kneeling by his bedside, murmuring - what, lullabies? no, incantations, a vial glimmering darkly with what appears to be blood cupped in his hands. He smiles slightly when Harry sits up but doesn't stop chanting. That is, until Harry lunges at his throat.

Blood stains the carpet a rich scarlet.

"You _fucker,_" Harry curses as he misses Tom by inches and collapses out of bed and right onto the damp, bloody splotch on the carpet. His head spins sickeningly - he's guessing he's still running low on blood - but he fights the dizziness and lunges again at Tom, who's scrambled to the other side of the room for cover. But Tom is too quick for him. He waves his wand (_my wand_, Harry thinks with outrage) and Harry finds himself sailing backwards, back onto the bed where he hits his head against the wooden headboard with a nasty thump. He nearly blacks out, but still he strains to get at Tom. It's no use, though, it's like there's an invisible sumo wrestler pinning him to bed, and all he can do is wave his arms and kick his legs uselessly like a toddler in its cot.

"It's foolish to exert yourself like that, Harry. Calm down before you pass out again," Tom orders, crossing the room again and sitting down at the foot of the bed. The vial of blood he sets gently on the bedside table.

"Fuck you," Harry snarls. "How can I relax when you _gutted me like a pig raised for slaughter_?"

"I did _not _gut you like a pig," says Tom, still sounding infuriatingly calm and self-possessed. "Believe me, if I had you wouldn't be alive right now. I made a small and calculated laceration on your jugular, missing the carotid artery entirely. Pigs are slaughtered very differently. Yes, you would have bled to death eventually, but I didn't think the chances of your friends allowing it were very high. Also I reckoned you'd rather I attack you than your friends."

There's a pang in Harry's heart at the mention of his friends, and he wonders if they all think he's dead. Probably so. He feels guilty for the suffering he's caused them, especially after all they've been through. "How considerate of you," Harry says dully, his anger fading, quickly replaced by sadness and exhaustion. How's he going to face Hagrid?

Tom, who's been watching him all this while with his head cocked like he's listening for something, now turns his attention to the vial of blood. He summons it and cradles it in his long white hands, looking abstracted. Then he remarks, "Well on the bright side at least I'm an improvement from Voldemort, don't you think? I'm not actively trying to kill you, attempted murder was just a side effect of my other schemes."

Harry's anger flares and he makes another failed lunge at Tom's throat.

Tom only smirks and twirls the vial in his hand. "I'm going to make you sleep now, Harry. It isn't safe for me to stay too long, so we'll need to finish the blood transfusion without any further interruption."

"Why do you care?" Harry asks, aware of how petulant he sounds and hating it.

Tom shrugs. "Look, I'd rather we didn't part enemies."

"You don't attempt to murder your friends," Harry points out.

"It was the cleanest solution I saw to getting out of there," is all Tom has to say to his defense.

"And trusting me to get us out of there wasn't an option?"

"I'm not used to trusting other people," Tom says quietly.

Harry shuts his eyes and sighs. "You could just say you're sorry," he says.

"I'm not used to that either."

"For fuck's sake."

"Alright I'm sorry," Tom says, looking uncharacteristically flushed. "Not that I know what sorry means in this context, since I still think it was a logical decoy and I don't particularly regret trying it.."

"Don't ruin the apology," Harry says, but he feels his mood lighten.

Tom smiles a little at this and reaches into his pocket, producing the sleeping potion Harry bought in Diagon Alley what seems like ages and ages ago. "Will you take this and let me heal you while you sleep?" he asks, more hesitantly than before. "It's not just about the interruptions, sleeping while I heal you will speed up the process."

"Alright," Harry says. "Will you wake me before you leave?"

"Alright," Tom says, and Harry swallows the potion.

But when Harry wakes for the second time it's to an empty room. Everything is exactly as it was before - dim lamp light, drawn curtains, musty smell - apart from the noticeable absence of Tom. The blood stain on the carpet is gone too, Harry notices. He gets out of bed, pleased that rising to his feet is no longer a dizzying experience, crosses the room and draws the heavy velveteen curtains. The perpetual night of the motel room is suddenly dispelled, replaced by a London morning too dazzling for Harry's eyes. It makes Harry wonder, not without melancholy, what morning looks like in San Francisco.

* * *

A\N: This is the end of Part One. Tom will be back, he's too sexy to not write about.


	7. Chapter 7

Life after the Tom Riddle affair eventually goes back to almost-normal, or to a near-approximation of how it was before the war, but it takes a while. Facing Hagrid and the Weasleys back at Shell Cottage the morning after the breakout is one of the most uncomfortable situations Harry's ever found himself in. His friends are relieved to see him, of course, but once the initial hugs are exchanged they look at him differently, some with confusion, some with wariness almost, like they're seeing him for the first time. Arthur is quieter than usual and only mentions that Harry'll probably not get into too much trouble with the law given his war hero status. Hagrid, Mrs Weasley and Fleur can't quite come to terms with the idea that Harry was helping Tom out of his own free will and insist, despite his protests, that he was under Tom's spell the whole time. "He must have cast it when they were alone together in the Gryffindor common room. This is just like when poor Ginny got possessed by his diary," Mrs Weasley laments loudly, and Fleur and Hagrid express their agreement with fervent death threats against Tom.

There's another round of explaining himself when Ron and Hermione return from their trip to Australia (cut short by two weeks once they heard Harry had been abducted, but thankfully still successful - Hermione's parents turn up at Shell Cottage with their daughter, looking very dazed) that afternoon. Hermione does not hesitate to tell Harry she thinks he's an idiot for almost getting himself killed and his trust was misplaced even if Tom did save his life because Tom was _clearly_ prepared to let Harry die, but at least she's somewhat sympathetic to his cause. Ron, on the other hand, joins the Fleur-Molly Weasley-Hagrid camp immediately and starts speculating on how Tom could have managed to get Harry under his spell. It makes Harry a little bitter to think that his friends would refuse to take him seriously lest they risk shattering their black and white view of the world - it makes him feel, not for the first time in his life, that he has no one he can talk to. Then he catches himself indulging his own bitterness, and remembers the people he's feeling bitter towards are the ones who've been with him through thick and thin, whom he loves more than anything in the world and who were the reason he even had a shot against Voldemort, and he wonders if maybe Ron and Mrs Weasley and Hagrid are right, and the past two surreal nights in the attic have in fact changed him, though in ways more subtle than possession by a Horcrux or an Imperius curse would.

Its strange beginning aside, the summer is otherwise unremarkable. Harry manages to sell Grimmauld Place to the Malfoys, his strategy being to show up for tea uninvited one day and casually suggest stripping the Blacks' ancestral home of magic and putting it on the Muggle real estate market, which makes the blood drain from all three Malfoys' faces and elicits a stiff concession from Narcissa Malfoy that she_ might_ be interested in acquiring the mansion. Harry'd take Kreacher with him rather than leave him in the care (or the neglect) of the Malfoys, but the elf is much too attached to the house, and so Harry moves into the new apartment he buys with the money alone. Not that he spends very much time by himself- his friends are often over, and almost every weekend is spent at the Burrow, at first helping the Weasleys to spruce up the place and erase every trace of the unwelcome guests (now safely locked away in Azkaban, all but one), and then just hanging out and playing cards and quidditch and listening to the radio and sucking on popsicles like they used to on lazy summer days before the war. Voldemort is almost never brought up and Tom Riddle even less so (though in everyone's mind but Harry's the separation between the two isn't very clear), but it doesn't keep Harry from brooding over the latter when he's alone. He dwells on the kiss often, more often than he should, he knows (more often than Tom has ever thought about it, says a niggling voice in his head) but he can't help himself. Part of him wants to tell Hermione everything - if anyone can help him figure his life out she can - but he doesn't know how to bring it up with her, and also there's another part of him that doesn't want to be told that he was being played, that the most intense kiss he's ever had (there, he's admitted it) was, like the most intense throat-slashing he's ever had, just another of Tom Riddle's decoys, designed to confuse him into breaking Tom out of the Burrow. He doesn't want to hear it, even if it is the truth of the matter.

* * *

September rolls around, and Harry passes through metal and onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters. There're first day of school butterflies fluttering about in his stomach like he's a first year again - The year (year and a half if you count the summers) they've spent away from school feels like an eternity, and it's making him nervous. It took him a while to decide whether to return. As Ron pointed out, his inheritances from his parents and from Sirius mean he could never work a day in his life if he wanted to, so fuck the NEWTS. Unfortunately Hermione (the newly crowned head girl) overheard the conversation, and her fury was enough to make Harry forget about dropping out and Ron forget about being a bad influence. So he's here now, amid milling crowds and clouds of smoke issuing from the Hogwarts express, with butterflies in his stomach.

Harry quickly realizes people are staring at him. Those who know him stop to chat, and some of those who don't know him stop anyway and thank him for ending the war. A girl even asks him to sign her book (the misunderstanding that results from Ron mishearing this is a source of embarrassment for all parties), but most people just stare. It's the staring without saying hi that Harry finds most discomfiting, and he boards the train as quickly as possible and barricades himself in the last cabin with Ron and Hermione, who drop their bags off and leave for prefect duties.

It isn't too long before the door slides open.

"Oh," say Harry and Malfoy at the same time, startled. Somehow the absence of Malfoy's usual cadre makes him look more diminutive, both thinner and shorter than Harry remembers. It occurs to Harry that most of the Slytherins from their batch must have taken the NEWTS and graduated, explaining why Malfoy is alone for once.

"You can sit if you like," Harry says, gesturing at the empty seat across him. "I'll be by myself for the most part." He has to suppress a smile when Malfoy's eyes nearly pop out of his head.

"Yeah sure, whatever," Malfoy mutters ungraciously, and swings his two suitcases and broom onto the luggage rack before coming over to join Harry. He does his best to avoid eye contact, which isn't hard because he's grown his fringe over his eyes, and Harry wonders how he can see anything through it.

"How's Grimmauld Place?" Harry asks before the silence becomes self-enforcing.

"Fine," says Malfoy automatically, then when Harry raises an eyebrow, he says, "Shit. It's a shithole."

Harry laughs, and Malfoy smirks a little, a ghost of the smirk Harry remembers well from earlier days.

"It wasn't always that way," Malfoy says. "Mother says the aesthetics never were to her taste, but it was more welcoming when she was young."

Harry wonders if the young Narcissa got along with the young Sirius. Probably not; She probably thought he was insane and he probably thought she had a stick up her butt. It's a weird sort of glimpse into Sirius' childhood, from a perspective Harry's never considered before.

"Was she over often?" he asks.

"Oh yeah, she was a real tomboy when she was young - don't raise your eyebrows at me, Potter. She'd ask my grandmother to let her sleep over on weekends so she could play with her cousins. Your godfather too," Malfoy adds hesitantly, watching Harry for a reaction. Harry smiles.

The Hogwarts Express gives a loud whistle and the doors slam shut. Soon they're chugging along, faster and faster down the tracks. Harry and Malfoy lean back in their seats and watch the hills and pastures of the English countryside blend into a green blur through the window. This time the silence isn't awkward, and Harry finds he doesn't regret his decision to invite Malfoy to sit with him.

"Chess?" asks Malfoy after a while.

"Sure, but I'm rubbish," says Harry, which makes Malfoy laugh as he _accio_s his chess set from his suitcase.

"You really are rubbish," Malfoy observes half an hour later as he takes Harry's queen. "I thought I wasn't that great but you're just terrible at strategy. How did you win a war against the greatest dark lord of all time again?"

"_You _thought you weren't that great?" Harry retorts.

"Only at chess," Malfoy says, and the familiar smirk makes a return.

The cabin door slides open again then, and Harry looks up. "Oh is the trolley here already?" Malfoy asks, turning around.

It's Ron, gaping at them from the doorway. He collects himself quickly, though, and remarks, gesturing at the chessboard where Harry's hand hovers above his knight, "Bad move, mate." Then he adds, gesturing at Malfoy, "Worse move."

Malfoy gets up and shoves past Ron, stalking off without so much as a backwards glance.

"Simmer down drama queen, I didn't mean it," calls Ron after the retreating blond, and Harry buries his head in his hands.

* * *

Hogwarts is not the same with Minerva McGonagall as headmistress. Harry loves her, but he misses Dumbledore's cryptic and meandering and oftentimes ridiculous postprandial speeches. McGonagall just cuts to the chase, making announcements in quick succession. Hermione is the new head girl, Michael Corner is the new head boy, everyone is to obey them, the Carrows have been replaced by two new hires - Frank Moss, a nondescript man whose most distinctive features are his balding head and mournful eyes, is the new professor of Muggle Studies, and the new Defence against the Dark Arts professor has unfortunately been taken ill but classes tomorrow have _not_ been cancelled (here a loud groan from all four house tables). McGonagall goes on- there's a new caretaker to add to the list of hires, Mr Filch regrets to say he's unable to return to Hogwarts following the tragic death of Mrs Norris during the war… McGonagall's words are drowned out by the sudden burst of cheering, and no one pays much attention when the new Caretaker stands up at the teachers' table. Harry doesn't catch his name - Ali? Ellie? Elliot?- but he notices the man is not bad looking, especially for a Filch-substitute, with dark shaggy hair that seems to have been chopped off at the ends "Silence!" snaps McGonagall. The chatter finally subsides. "Prefects, lead the way to the dormitories," McGonagall orders curtly, and that's the end of Harry's first day of school.


End file.
